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“Get down, mister. I’ll leave a plate of cornbread on the porch for you. You can stay the night, but I don’t have an empty stall. Your horse will have to be tied to the wall.”
He nodded. “Much obliged, ma’am. I’ll appreciate the meal. It’s been a long time since noon.”
“You come up the mountain from Pine Creek?” she asked, suspicion rife in her tone.
He shook his head. “No, across from Big Bertha on the other side.”
The mine was about played out, but there were still men working it. Maybe he’d been let go, like so many others, once the mother lode had ceased to produce in any measure. The clerk in the store at Pine Creek had filled her in on the surrounding territory when she arrived, and Erin had listened avidly. It paid to know her surroundings.
“All right, you can stay the night,” she repeated abruptly, closing the door as he turned toward the shed.
Drawing the pan of cornbread from the oven, she cut a large square, centering it on a thick plate, one of the two that had come with the cabin. A dollop of butter at the edge of the plate, along with a knife and fork, completed her offering. She opened the door slowly and bent to place the food at the edge of the porch, once ascertaining he was not in view.
“On second thought.” she said after a moment, turning back to the stove. Her common courtesy demanded more, and she filled a mug with steaming coffee from the pot resting on the back burner.
As she opened the door again, the visitor looked up from the edge of the porch, his hand reaching for the plate. His eyes were dark, narrowing as the light from inside illuminated his face.
“Ma’am? Something wrong?” he asked. And then his mouth twisted into a one-sided smile as he spotted the cup she held.
She stepped warily from the doorway, holding the coffee in his direction, and he took it from her, his fingers careful not to infringe on her grip.
“Thank you. It’s most appreciated.” His eyes widened a bit as he scanned her form, then hesitated as his gaze came to rest on her swollen belly.
“You all right, up here by yourself?” he asked quietly.
“What makes you think I’m alone?” she asked, backing into the cabin. Her heart was thumping, her cheeks felt flushed, and she leaned against the doorjamb.
“Dunno. Guess I took it for granted. Didn’t see a man around. Not much room in there to hide anybody, is there?” His smile was wider, but his look was unchanging, dark and piercing.
“I do all right, mister. Just go eat your meal.” She closed the door and leaned against it, her head back. This wasn’t what she’d bargained for, this stranger at her doorstep.
She’d hoped for solitude here, prayed for safety and expected to be ignored. No one back east knew where she was. Even the man at the store thought she was a widow lady named Mrs. Peterson. That he also probably thought she was a bit eccentric, maybe even unbalanced, living alone on the side of a mountain all winter, could not be avoided.
Her cornbread tasted flat, the coffee strong, and the milk she drank was too warm to be refreshing.
“You ruined my supper, mister,” she muttered, turning down the wick on the kerosene lamp before she readied herself for bed. Her flannel gown was big, bought large enough to accommodate her increasing bulk, and she wrapped it around herself as she curled in the middle of the bed.
The window allowed moonlight to cast its glow against the floor, and she watched as shadows flitted across the glass panes. An owl, from the size of it, then another night bird. Leaves from the hardwoods at the edge of the clearing would be on the ground by morning, what with the wind blowing up a storm.
Her eyes closed and she opened them with effort, hearing a horse call from the shed. Maybe the chicken would cluck outside the door and he’d let her in. Probably wasn’t cold enough to freeze the creature, anyway.
The morning dawned with a red glow, the sun behind hazy clouds, barely peeking through. It hadn’t rained much, but there was a storm still brewing out there.
Erin dressed quickly before she turned to the stove, shaking down the ashes and stoking the fire with three chunks of wood. She set six thick slices of bacon in her skillet and placed it on the back burner, the coffeepot, freshly filled with water and ground coffee, at the front.
She broke an egg into the pot, added the shell and closed the lid. The thought of a stranger coming had taken on a lesser feel of danger. He probably meant well. Coming at twilight, and being built on such a grand scale, he’d appeared to be a threat, right off. He might look less forbidding in the light of day.
She separated the milk and put a pitcher of cream on the table, then poured the skim into the bucket. It broke her heart to pour it on the ground, but the little Jersey was a good milker and she had more than she could use. The cream she shook in a jar for butter, and she managed to drink over a quart of whole milk a day. Still, some went to waste.
At the rate she was going, she’d be fatter than a pig by the time the baby came. Her hand pressed against the familiar rounding of her belly, and a small foot shifted, meeting her touch. A smile nudged her lips and she acknowledged the possessive thrill that shivered through her at the evidence of the miniature being inside her flesh.
He didn’t move much, not as much as she’d expected or hoped, but each twitch, every tiny kick, was a reminder of her reason for being alive. She was bearing a child, a living extension of herself.
Her mouth drew down. That it should also be a reminder of the man she had married could not be helped. Damian Wentworth had been a two-faced—
She shivered. Better that she not think of him.
Her warm sweater buttoned up to the throat, she lifted the pail and set forth. First to the edge of the clearing, where she poured the leftover milk upon the ground. Then to the outdoor pump, where she rinsed and scrubbed out the pail.
Finally she turned to the shed. The door was open, and she blinked in surprise. Surely it had been shut when she ventured from the cabin.
“Good morning, ma’am.” From behind her, near the outhouse, came the voice of her guest.
She turned, a bit awkwardly, and faced him. He was even larger than she’d realized from her vantage point on the porch last night, with him on the ground below. He towered over her and she watched warily as he waited, unmoving.
“I didn’t know you were stirring already this morning,” she said after a moment. She watched as a half smile curved his mouth. He needed a shave, dark whiskers hiding half his face, suddenly making him appear a danger once more.
“I tend to be quiet, I suppose,” he said, apparently in lieu of an apology for startling her. His eyes met hers and he cleared his throat. “I’d be more than willing to help with the chores. Maybe I could earn another cup of coffee.”
“You know how to milk a cow?”
His grin turned wry. “Afraid not, ma’am. But I’m handy with horses. I could probably even gather up the eggs, if you like.” He chuckled. “That scallywag of a hen of yours woke me up before dawn, wanting back in the shed.”
Erin felt a smile crease her face, unbidden, but perhaps welcome. “I usually give the horses a good measure of hay at night. I try to stake them out in the morning, when the weather’s good.”
“The cow, too?” he asked.
She nodded. “After I milk her. The chickens can run free for the morning. They Won’t go far. I don’t feed them till afternoon. When they hear the feed rattling in the tin pan, they come running.”
“You come from farm folk?” he asked, turning to lead the way to the shed.
“No, from city people, actually.”
At least she told the truth there, he thought with satisfaction. Best to keep your story as straight as possible, he’d always felt. Less confusing that way.
“How long you been here on your own?”
She looked up at him, then glanced away, as if not willing to…answer his query.
“A while,” she said finally, reaching to open the shed door. It creaked mightily and she shoved at it.
“Here, I’ll do that.” He eased her to one side, and she stiffened at the touch of his hand on her arm, then backed away.
The cow lowed impatiently, looking over her shoulder as the young woman approached. It was time and past for milking, her solemn expression said, and in answer Erin went to her, speaking softly, her hands touching the pretty face.
“I’m here, Daisy. Did you think I forgot you?” Her low, musical laugh was misplaced here, he decided. It belonged over a tea table, or better yet, in a bedroom. That image flashed in his mind unbidden, and he suppressed it quickly, irritated with himself, even as he admired her dark hair and elegant features. He’d been too long abstinent when a pregnant woman held this much appeal.
“The cow’s name is Daisy?” he asked, steering his mind in another direction.
She nodded. “I’ve named most everything. The mare is Socks and the gelding is Choreboy.”
“Not the chickens?” His voice held a touch of humor, almost as if he expected an affirmative answer.
She cast him a look over her shoulder as she moved to put the milking stool in place. “I’m not that lonesome, mister. I can refrain from calling chickens by name.”
“What shall I call you?” He ventured the query as she settled herself on the low stool, and he watched warily lest she tip the three-legged seat.
Her hesitation was minute, but he noted it, making a bet with himself on her degree of honesty. She was having a hard time keeping her stories straight. Between New York and Denver she’d used six different names.
“I’m Erin Peterson,” she said quietly, her forehead leaning against the soft brown hide of her cow.
Make that seven. “Are you?” he mused.
She glanced up at him, her eyes watchful.
“Pretty name.” His nod was friendly, his smile bland.
“You have a name, I assume?”
He nodded. “My mama called me Quinn Yarborough, after my pa.”
“Really? Where was he from?” Her fingers were adept at the milking chore. He figured she’d had three months to perfect the task. The milk squirted in a satisfactory manner against the walls of the pail and the odor was almost sweet.
“Pa came from Scotland. My mother was a farmer’s daughter in New York. They settled in upstate New York, where I was born.”
“What are you doing in Colorado?” she asked, shifting on the stool a bit, her dress tucked between her legs, making room for the pail. She lifted a hand to wipe her forehead, where wisps of dark hair had fallen from place.
“Gold.” It was as good an answer as any, he decided. Probably better than most. Gold miners were scattered throughout the mountains like ants on a rotten log, running every which way, looking for sustenance.
She peered at him over her shoulder. “Find any?”
His grin was automatic. “Sure enough. The mother lode, as a matter of fact.”
His smile faded. She wouldn’t appreciate the humor of that statement, should she know of what he spoke. The money he would gain from her capture was minimal. The satisfaction would far outweigh the monetary gain.
Damian Wentworth had been his boyhood friend, both of them living in the same household. And there the similarity ended.
The Wentworths were high society. Quinn Yarborough’s mother had been their housekeeper, a job she found after her farmer husband died at a young age and left her to raise a son on her own.
In those early years, Damian had shared his toys, his pets and his waking hours with the housekeeper’s son. Then, when the time came, they had parted, Damian to attend a fine university, Quinn to make his own way in the world.
They’d lost touch, only an occasional article in the newspaper keeping Quinn up to date. First the notice of Damian’s wedding, then three years later, an obituary. Sudden death was always suspect, in Quinn’s book.
The young woman frowned at him, her tone dubious as she questioned his claim. “You found the mother lode? I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged. “When you’re working for someone else, you don’t get your proper share, you know. I made a bundle, and since I wasn’t lookin’ to be a rich man, it was time to skedaddle. Men have been known to be killed for less than what I carry with me.”
“Aren’t you afraid to spread that news around?” Her fingers were brisk, stripping the milk from the small cow’s udder, and she concentrated on her task.
“The only person I’ve told is you, and somehow I don’t think you’re about to rob me blind.”
She laughed, a short, humorless sound. “You’re probably right, Mr. Yarborough. I’m not much of a threat to anyone.”
She rose from the stool and bent to pick it up, placing it by the wall. Her hand snatched the pail from disaster as the cow shifted position, one back hoof coming precariously close to the bucket.
“What would happen if you got hurt out here, all by yourself?” he asked quietly, aware suddenly of her risky situation.
“These animals are no danger to me,” she answered. “I tend to fear more the two-legged variety that happen this way.”
“Like me?” He took the bucket from her and carried it to the doorway. She followed, into the daylight where he could see her better.
She leveled a glance at him, unsmiling. “You could have hurt me already, if you’d a mind to, Mr. Yarborough. Let the chickens out and stake the horses and cow, will you? I’d like them to graze a bit before the storm hits.”
She took the milk from his grasp, making her way to the cabin, slowly, lest the milk slosh over the edge of the pail. Daisy had given more than usual this morning. Jerseys were not known for quantity of milk, rather the richness of the cream. She’d have plenty for rice pudding today.
“I didn’t plan on having breakfast, Mrs. Peterson.” He’d managed to put away two bowls of oatmeal, swimming in rich cream. The bacon was a little old, but better than none at all. She must be about ready to go to town for supplies.
He said as much.
“Winter’s coming on,” she admitted. “I’ll need to stock up. Things will keep better once it gets colder out.”
“I’d be happy to give you a hand with supplies before I move along.” He leaned back in his chair, the casual suggestion coming as if it were of no account one way or the other.
She looked at him across the table, her face flushed from the heat of the stove. “You mean, go to town with me? And wouldn’t that make me the talk of Pine Creek?”
His jaw tightened, and he felt the clench of it narrow his gaze. “Not with me around, ma’am. I’d not treat you as anything but a lady. Any man with eyes in his head could see that you might need a hand, getting ready for winter.”
“I’ll be fine.” Her mouth thinned, and she bent over her bowl.
“You sending me on my way?”
She looked up, and her eyes skimmed his features, as if she looked for assurance of his credibility. “Not till after the storm,” she said finally, waving her spoon at the window. “It looks like it’s going to blow up very soon now.”
The sky had indeed darkened, the trees being whipped by the wind. He rose and walked to the door, opening it to look outside. The chickens gathered in a clutch near the shed, pecking away at anything that moved, clucking softly as they stepped carefully about in a tight circle.
A shimmering flash of lightning lit the sky across the valley below, and a crack of thunder met his ears. The cow lifted her head from the edge of the meadow and lowed impatiently. The horses shifted their ears, grazing as if they must eat their fill before the rain came down.
Behind him, Erin stirred, her chair scraping across the rough floor. He set his jaw. Getting her to town was taken care of. From there to New York promised to present a multitude of problems.
The cow would be left on her own, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d take the horses and enough supplies to get them through the mountain passes. It would take a couple of days to reach Denver, with her being a good size already.
Ted Wentworth was a sly one, all right. Not one word about the girl being in the family way. Whether that would have made a difference or not was a moot question, Quinn decided. He was here now. And if he were making a guess, he’d say she was well past the halfway mark.
“Mr. Yarborough?” She was behind him, and he turned to face her.
“Don’t you think the animals should be brought in? I’d not like them to be hit by lightning.” She moved to the window and looked outside. Her hand was pressed against her back and she wore the trace of a frown.
“I’ll get them in,” he told her quickly
